St Dumbledore's Home for Wayward Girls
by The Spectrum Sings
Summary: Now I share an eleven-foot-by-eleven-foot cell with a girl named Luna who burns herself at night. They can't find her lighter no matter where they look. Only I know that she keeps it right up between her legs, the one place they have yet to look. Hermione's pov, Hermione/Luna AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello. This is going contain self harm and non graphic mentions of rape, so if you would rather read about rainbows and flying ponies, maybe you should please leave. Otherwise, enjoy and review, my lovely people. **

Hermione's point of view:

I was fourteen when they took me. They loaded me into the back of a white panel van, marked "St. Dumbledore's Home for Wayward Girls." They told me that it was for my protection, my own good, as they strapped me down to a gurney and cuffed me to the dark rails. Now I share an eleven-foot-by-eleven-foot cell with a girl named Luna who burns herself at night. They can't find her lighter no matter where they look. Only I know that she keeps it right up between her legs, the one place they have yet to look.

I am sixteen now. Luna is my second roommate. My first was a girl named Ginny. She had the kind of red hair you found in princess story books. Beautiful, fire red. She hid her pills in her retainer case until she had enough to kill herself. I found her in the bath. Her hair was a shield of fire, floating around her as if she was suspended in the air.

Luna moved in the following week. She screamed as she was dragged now the corridor. She knew what was coming.

Luna and I do not talk. It is an unwritten rule that you will lie to protect the girls on your ward, so apart from swearing that I do not know where her lighter is hidden; no form of communication unites us. Although we do not talk, I know Luna from her silence, like she knows me from mine. There are many types of silence, as there are many types of tears. Luna's silence is soft. She is walking on china plates. She treads softly as the world around her falls, and her eyes, like the sun, follow the decaying world as she whispers her goodbyes and tumbles into the abyss. I cannot do that. I cannot succumb to the abyss. She keeps her lighter where I am broken. Violated, lost and sore. I am always hurting from deep haunting dreams, flashing back to the night that made me lose who I was. That made me worthy of becoming a 'loony'. Because, of course, it was my fault. It's always my fault.

His name was Ron. I was thirteen. I was smart. I loved books and painting and was happy. He said I lied.

Luna is pacing. I like to watch her pace and I know she sees my eyes as they follow her movements, and linger on her body, the curve of her breasts. She does not comment as my eyes trace her spine. I do not comment as her eyes flicker to my skinny scarred legs. My legs are bare. I sit in the standard white vest top, my white shorts discarded in favour of simply knickers. It is too hot. We have no windows, just the stale air. As she paces, she rips off each nail. It is a routine of sorts. She lets them grow until the end of the month, maybe two if needed, and then she rips and rips, tearing the nail away from flesh until they are raw and bleeding. Her hands shake with the effort of it. Her fingers look rough and like uncooked chicken. Spots of cherry stain her white shorts, her white vest tops: simple clothes. Who shall we dress up for? Her bed is on the wall opposite mine. Our bathroom door between our beds is the barrier we rarely cross. Sitting on her bed, she takes each finger and sucks off the blood, wincing and sighing. I doubt it hurts that much. I have seen what she does to her hips with the lighter. Her skin is a burgundy stain, hidden by the cheap ward vest top.

And there she sits. Fingers raw. Blonde hair dirty. Yet so beautiful. Completely silent, the usual spark in eye dulled by some unknown force. The spark that Luna holds keeps me sane. Somehow, through whatever twist of fate that brought her and the lighter to this place of grey walls, grey corridors and grey people, her eyes have power. I ask her what is wrong, to which she replies "nothing."

I have no idea why I asked. It was our first true conversation and that was all I could say. But I've sat and watched nothing eat up words and break souls. I've watched it tear the smiles from the faces of the people around me, leaving them broken and hollow. Too many people have been taken by nothing. And I won't let her be one of them. I can't.

Maybe I am too late. We are here after all.

"St. Dumbledore's Home for Wayward Girls" is a place I don't really have the style, verbal skill or poetry to describe its true horrors. When talking of a place that is atrocious, ghastly and staggeringly unspeakable, poetry helps. It makes the monsters under the bed less real. St. Dumbledore's Home for Wayward Girls is all sorts of things. An orphanage, a school for the appalling ones and a dumping ground for the mentally unstable. We are united in our losses.

I want to ask Luna why she chose to burn. Maybe that is too personal. Maybe after listening to someone's sobs and screams for over a year, it is not personal enough. It is six in the morning; Luna has said her 'nothing' and I have found my flip flops. We wait for the knock on the door in our shared silence of safety.

It is a Monday. Monday means school, or what passes as school. The corridors here are chilling. No one escapes from St. Dumbledore's Home for Wayward Girls. We walk, single file, cuffed to the girl in front of us until we reach the classroom and are chained to our desks. The desks are brown and simple. They are bolted to the floor, like furniture on ships. Luna sits beside me, one place to the right. We are the fourth row. Chains rattle as we print the date neatly in the corner of our school books.

The girls around me are in scattered states of dress. How you look means nothing here. The girl to the left of me is called Melissa. She is eighteen and anorexic. She has six ear piercings and each day has new words coating her arms in whatever she can find: blood, pen, and the most creative so far, toothpaste. Today, she is covered in the word 'fat.' Which makes sense, considering that is what she sees when she looks in the mirror. We see the skeleton girl.

The girl in front of me is the youngest. She is twelve and called Rue. She has yet to utter a word. She too, finds safety in silence.

The lesson is English: poems; beautiful words that hold secrets. Here, it is too daunting to raise a hand and say 'yes, I know the answer' because here, knowledge means you are dangerous. You could try and escape, you could tell the truth. And no matter how much we are all hurting... I do not think any of us truly want to die.

Luna looks over at me, I shiver under her gaze.

"Nargles." She breathes to me. I look around. She is facing the blackboard again. Our words are over for another day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey :) Thank you for reviewing, if you did, and I hope you enjoy this story, whether you review or not.**

Every day is an echo of the last.

My day goes like this: At seven in the morning we are marched through the winding corridors, past the foul smelling dining hall and the electrification room and into our class rooms. There are twenty of us. Four rows of five. Still no windows. I think daylight is what I miss most, for many reasons. I wonder what Luna's halo of hair would like in the sunshine. Daylight settles above the faces of family members.

The class room has a black chalk board, a dusty outdated world map and a few light bulbs hanging from the ceiling by their loose wires. We each have an orange book to write notes in, a biro pen and a pencil. No sharpeners.

Lunchtime is at one.

Melissa always tries to get out of lunch. She tries to hide, fake illness, anything. Anything but not eat. Her word today is in blue pen, it lines her arms: worthless.

The marching to the dining room has always made me think of soldiers. We are marching off to war. But it also makes me think we are marching to freedom. We are escaping from classes for a mere thirty minutes. Maybe we are also the protectors. But protectors kill to save, we kill ourselves to escape.

I always feel empty after classes. It as if my soul has been drawn from my body, torn to pieces and given back. I have to spend hours with my jar of glue, trying to fix myself but it is far too late.

The dining room is like any school cafeteria, I think. It is the one room that is not grey. The walls are instead a dull yellow. It is not a happy yellow but it is a yellow. It may be sickly and washed out but it is alive. Along one wall runs a belt for dirty dishes and along the opposite is the communion of staff handing out plates of food. The staff members here are my favourite. They do not tell you that you are a fucking liar. They do not slap you. They do not laugh at your tears. They do not take away your hope. They do not tell you to hurry the fuck up or get the fuck over it. They tell you "enjoy your meal" and you tell them "thank you."

The knives and forks here are plastic. They are counted out and counted back in.

Today is Tuesday and Tuesday means beef stew with your choice of water or blackcurrant squash. I always go for blackcurrant in the hopes it will one day taste of the fruit it claims to be. Tuesday also means it is my day to count the plastic utensils back in and hand them to a short dark haired woman with hairy arms and a name that is either Casey or Macy and either way sounds too young for her.

I collect twenty plastic forks and twenty plastic knives. I feel Luna's eyes pursue my movements as I snap a fork in half, slipping the jagged edge into my bra for later. She says nothing. It is another unwritten rule. You do not grass. I hand the utensils over, Casey or Macy nods, and throws them away. She does not count. She does not care. Why would she? It is not her child who has ruby scars on her legs.

"I hope you enjoyed your meal." She says. I nod. I try to remember how it tasted.

Then it is afternoon classes. Our afternoon teacher is Mr. Warner. He is tall, thin, and bald. His personality is tiresome, uninteresting and monotonous. But he is not as repulsive or dreadful as some of the staff here. I spend the class as I spend every class; I watch Luna. She is the light of the room. She is my light.

We march back to our cells. We sit on our opposite beds. We are silence. The silence is us.

In our room, it is dark. Lights out is ten. We do not break rules. That is a lie. It depends what the rule says. 'No self harm' is a rule that has never been accepted. That is a rule of secret burning, cutting and puking.

Luna stands and stretches. Her limbs are skinny, her breasts lift as she raises her arms and yawns. She is completely aware of my eyes on her as she changes into her pyjamas, the same way I am aware of her eyes skimming my body as I strip to my underwear and slide under the skin of bed sheets. She stays standing and smiles at me. Her smile makes me tense. Her jaw line is delicate and fragile. Her too perfect teeth sit evenly as she slides her serpent tongue seductively over them, ending at the corner, dampening the very crease of her mouth where she hides only her deepest, darkest desires. Her eyes scare me for a moment. I wonder what her lips taste like and shiver.

"Hermione." She whispers. She takes a step closer. Suddenly, my mind flickers to my razor-sharp slither of plastic concealed in the flimsy material of my bra. Her next step takes her to the edge of my bed. I sit up, the covers sliding away.

"Yes, Luna?" I answer evenly. Her answering smile surprises me and I pull myself up, gliding into the corner, against the wall. She slinks closer, leaning over me. Her breath ghosts over my neck. Is there a reason for this endless wanting; a wanting that leaves me reaching and grasping at the pointless horizon of Never Haves and Never Wills? It leaves my bones empty and hollow, like a bird. But aren't birds supposed to be able to fly - wings outstretched, glorious and tumbling through the winter sky?

She leans forward, ever so slightly. "Are you going to stop me?" I say nothing. The words... Thirteen year old me feels panic. She wants to jump up and run. She wants to shout stop. She wants to beg Luna not to ruin her. But she has already been ruined.

Ron Weasley was two years older than me. He was tall and cute, attractive and sweet, cocky and funny. Ron Weasley was a fucking bastard who stole my life. I have no words. No words for such a monster.

And so I say nothing. And she guides our lips together. She feels like velvet and tastes like blood. Her tongue slinks between my lips, nudging my tongue until I move back, leaning into her body, lacing our hands together. It is slow and soft and lingers.

She pulls away, her lips making an odd sound as they close.

"Dyke." She whispers. I freeze, blinking at her. "That's another word for you to carve into your skin."

I recoil, slamming hard against the wall. She springs away, standing tall with a slow smirk as she reaches inside her pyjamas and removes her lighter. She twirls it in her fingers.

"I hate you." I whisper. I don't know if I mean it. I just know I have spend a year watching her. A year with someone in silence. And now our silence is shattered and scarred and shaking.

"You can't hate me as much as I hate myself." She shrugs carefully. She is watching my expressions and movements closely. I cannot look away from those eyes.

My saliva still ices her bottom lip, a damp layer of lust and regret is all that remains.

She flicks the flame on, flicking her tongue out to touch the blaze.

I am thirteen again. I am screaming and nobody is listening. I bound to my feet and hurdle into the bathroom, slamming the door in Luna's beautiful face. I rip out my jagged plastic saviour. I do not scream. But Luna does. Luna whimpers. I hear the lighter click. She muffles a cry. I wonder why she is hurting. Is she hurting because she knows what she can drive me to? I decide to give her what she wants.

I slice the letter 'D' into my thigh. 'Y' my skin splits apart easily, the right amount of pressure to break the surface. 'K' and deeper, into my soft flesh. 'E' the pain calms me. I try and take deep breaths. In and out. In and out. In and out.

Each letter litters crimson drops on the floor. I try to sing 'Purple Rain' replacing 'purple' with 'red' but it just doesn't go. The floor becomes a puddle of burgundy.

My thirteen year old self shakes her head at me. She knows I am in too deep. She knows I have already lost.

"Hermione?" Luna calls brokenly. I wonder if there is more than one Luna. The Luna who need silence, the Luna who needs me and the Luna who smiles as I break.

I open the door.

Luna is like the lingering taste of vodka on my lips or the deep set feel of chilly winter nights etched in the hollows of my bones, she lingers on me in the same way. She is like the cold heavy breaths and inward shivers sent up my spine from frozen ground and like ever present silence. She sits in the centre of our stone floor in her underwear. Her hips are raw. The skin has melted away. Her hands are seeping blood and have a peeling layer broken skin. She is smiling. Her eyes linger on my eyes, my breasts, my thighs. They trace the letters that dribble blood onto our floor. She meets my eyes.

"Can we be broken together?" She whispers.

"I don't want to be broken." I say strongly. My hands are slick with blood and I wipe them on the wall. I wonder how long it will take to turn brown.

"Then let's leave." She says, her words almost not existence they are so quiet. She is shivering noticeably.

"Together?" I ask. She nods. I pull the blankets off her bed and drape them around her skinny shoulders. She flinches, shifting so the fabric does not touch where her skin has trickled away into nothing.

I have watched nothing destroy worlds. This is not 'nothing'. If I cannot beat 'nothing', how can I beat this?

Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow, we wait for our pain to scar. We wait for where it will take us.


	3. Chapter 3

It is midnight. Tuesday ends and Wednesday begins. I have not slept. Sleeping seems too far away. Luna has not moved from her place on the cold floor. I wonder why she does not shiver or crawl into bed. I sit and I stare. It is not nearly enough for me not to wonder how she is. I care far too much. Yet I am clumsy with my heart, with my words, with a knife. Words. They cut like knives. I don't know how to bare my soul in a single whisper or in a whisper at all. But her kiss burned fire through my soul. For two so unalike to have chemistry is something she can hardly ignore. If she flees I shall dutifully linger near the precipice of her What Could Have Beens, surfacing in the gaze of every dumb boy or girl and cackling at the obvious lies that roll off their tongues. This is my Shakespearean promise to Luna Lovegood.

I see Luna tremble. She's her own worst enemy and hardest critic.

"Go to bed." I say sternly.

She blinks up at me, her owl eyes growing large in the dark. She did not know I was awake.

Luna shakes her head, her hair spilling out around her shoulder.

"Luna." I say. She doesn't move. I try again. "Come to bed?" She looks up. I have surprised her. I don't have a fear of commitment; I have a fear of abandonment. Right now, I fear she will say 'no.' Luna looks like a delicate flower swaying on the wind as she scrambles to her feet. They are tinted blue. She scurries towards me on tip-toes, easily slipping into the covers and sliding up beside me. She loops an arm around my waist, snuggling into my shoulder. My heart soars. I sleep. My breathing is in time with hers. It is unexpected. All of it is. But the unexpected is what changes lives.

When Wednesday morning dawns Luna is still beside me. She is warm and soft. Luna and I are a mess of intertwined limbs and soft breathing.

"Wake up." I do not want to wake her. I think I could watch her sleep forever. It honestly scares me. Is this Love? I search my memory for what I know of love and come up with a quote:

Love is patient; love is kind and envies no one. Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude; never selfish, not quick to take offence. Love keeps no score of wrongs; does not gloat over another's sins, but delights in the truth. There is nothing love cannot face; there is not limit to its faith, its hope, and its endurance. In a word, there are three things that last forever: faith, hope, and love; but the greatest of them all is love.

1 Corinthians 13

Luna opens her eyes. Together, we peel back the blankets to inspect what damage our words have created on our selves. My leg is scabbing over, it is raw and deep in places and I am filled with a deep regret. I know that this regret with no stop me from picking up my jagged shard from the bathroom floor and slipping it into my hiding place.

Luna's side is peeling. The skin has not healed, or even really attempted to do so. It looks horrible. It looks as if it still burns. She runs a finger through the worst of it, testing for something I do not know.

"I've had worse." She whispers and traces her hand down my stomach and onto my thigh. "I wish I could take it back." Her finger traces the 'D.'

"The kiss or the cuts?" I find myself half demand. I am almost surprised at the bossy tone of my voice.

"I don't know." She says dreamily. Then: "The cuts." She stands, scoops up her lighter and wanders into the bathroom. She pauses in the door way.

"I'll wash the floor." She says. She hesitates. "Do you want the plastic back?" I nod. She nods. We know the other can't cope with out the pain. It is almost seven. We wait for the knock on the door.

Wednesday is my day to see the psychiatrist. A dandified drug dealer.

He says I have depression which is why I cut and likes to rant about it to me before we do any real talking.

Cutting has been described to me by my psychiatrist as a natural drug in that it released endorphins to the brain immediately following the cutting. However, in the long run, cutting can lead to more severe depression and also can cause permanent physical damage. Cutting sometimes is accompanied by head banging, burning, or other self-destructive behaviours. As I think the words, I presume I am quoting some knock off medical book my psychiatrist likes to read aloud from. His fake father likely wrote it.

I think they're all just waiting for us to kill ourselves so they can go somewhere fun.

Ginny used to say "Killing myself would be great. I could just say fuck you God, I win, and it would be over."

My appointment is first, so while Luna and her lighter go to class, I wonder behind Mrs. Matthew's into the little box room with the window. The window always has the blinds down. I think they keep us away from sunshine on purpose. I think they are trying to drown out our hope.

My psychiatrist is called Peter Silver. He demands I call him Pete. His hair is dyed and he has a noticeable bald patch. He is not hideous but his personality tends to be. He is too obnoxious for my liking.

"Hello, Hermione." He greets cheerfully as I sit in the red leather chair. I would rather a simple wooden one.

"Hello." I say. "Pete." I add, after a short pause. He squirms.

"Any more flashbacks, hey?" He asks. This question is unsightly.

"No." I answer.

"Still taking you meds, hey?" He has a habit of saying 'hey' after everything. When he doesn't you have to be careful. When he doesn't he is usually a mix of dangerous, threatening and the antonym of nice.

"Yes." I answer. I think of guess who. It is all a yes/no game.

"No more cutting?" Today, I am wearing the regulation shorts for two reasons. I do not like Peter's eyes on my flesh and I do not want people to see the word I have carved into myself yet. I have to be used to it first.

"No." I answer.

"Good girl, hey?" He says, "Now, we'll just boost those depression tablets and you'll be on your way in no time." I hear this every Wednesday. I pretend to smile. "That a girl." We both know I will never be released. If I am ever to leave, it will be because I have run.

"And what are your thoughts on the others, hey?"

"The funny thing is nobody ever really knows how much anyone is hurting. We could be standing next to somebody who is completely broken and we wouldn't even know, would we?" I say.

He glances obviously at my wrists. Old scars are now silver. "I think some people tell us, even if unwillingly." He shrugs.

"Peter?" I ask, "What time do they lock the main door?" His eyes narrow as I continue. "I was wondering only because I might start to feel unsafe if I know the door is unlocked while I am sleeping. I worry, you see? I don't want to trigger any flashbacks." It's proof of how bad the psychiatrists here are that he smiles and believes me.

"They get locked at six, just after all the teachers go home, so don't you worry. No one will hurt you." He looks encouraging. He winks. "I'll keep you safe." He slides a hand across the table towards me. I scoot backwards but he leans forwards quickly, catching my chin between his fingers. He strokes it gently before I yank myself away. His eyes turn nasty, a reflection of the nasty mud colour they are.

"See you next week." He says as I stand. He slaps my butt as I exit. I do not flinch. I am used to this. I am used to him trying to touch me, slithering his hands ever closer. I keep walking, hurrying after Mrs. Matthews like she isn't just as intimidating. Just as menacing. Just as unpleasant.

I walk into class and Mrs. Matthews chains me to my desk before she leaves.

"How's Pete?" Luna hisses. I had not realized she saw him too.

"He's a rapist waiting to happen." I whisper back. She nods.

"I spat in his coffee last week." She murmurs.

"He deserves it. Just don't get caught." I add. She gives me a quick glance. The glance tells me all I need to know. She cares for me the way I care for her.

"We're getting out of here." She says.

"Luna, silence!" The voice from the front snaps her attention away.

From the corner of her mouth she whispers: "We're getting out. Together."


	4. Chapter 4

This Wednesday night is particularly cold. For once, I wear the pyjamas offered.

It is cold enough that Luna and I pull all our blankets together on my bed and cuddle together inside our bubble of silence. I can see her chest rise and fall in the darkness. I can feel her breath coat my neck, warming the skin. My hands trace her spine, drawing lazy patterns. She grips me tighter as I trace over a patch of healing skin. I kiss her forehead gently.

"Sorry." I say softly and she sighs into me, kissing my neck. She bites down carefully on my pulse point and I gasp against my will. She chuckles, resting her head on my chest.

"Tell me a story." She whispers lazily. I, like everyone, have stories that I'm not willing to tell. I have secrets that are hidden so far inside of me that even I don't know them. I have all these unknown facts, forgotten memories, faded dreams and they form little dark red bricks, and they pile up. Rows of little dark red bricks, held together with medicine and unshed tears. The wall is carefully constructed, over the course of years. And no tornado can pull it down. But this is Luna and I pause. There are suddenly so many things I want to tell her. If anyone is to be given everything, it is Luna.

"What about?" I ask instead. She makes a soft sound into my neck and curls closer to me.

"I want to know about you." Luna murmurs sleepily.

"Okay." I whisper. I feel her smile against my neck. I have many stories, I do suppose. I could tell her about Ron. I could tell her about Ginny. I could tell her about when I first picked up the blade. But that is not the right type of story for now.

"When I was little, I wanted to grow up to be Violet Baudelaire." I say quietly. "When thinking and concentrating on new inventions, she ties her hair in a ribbon, in order to keep it out of her face. So I saved up and brought lots of multi-coloured ribbons. My favourite was the red one, I think, red or green. I liked the red one because it was so bright, it was almost blood red. The green one made me think of evergreen trees or holly."

"Did you want to be an inventor?" She whispers, interested. "I wanted to be an explorer."

"Yes. I wanted to create something new and special." I say. "Where did you want to explore?"

"Everywhere." She says and then she murmurs something I can't make out.

"What?"

"You're special." And then her breathing changes, she drifts into sleep in an instant.

"Tomorrow," I whisper, "It's your turn to tell a story."

Thursday dawns like every other day. But today is slightly different. The steel door flips open, bouncing off the wall and screeching in protest. I startle, jumping awake to find Luna's arms clinging to me. We have surprise room searches and this morning we are surprised. It's an odd kind of surprised. The surprise is not just our own. Room, or cell, searches are carried out by Mrs. Matthews and Mr. Hyde. Their surprise is at the way Luna holds me, the way I hold her, our tent of blankets, our small secret smiles just for each other. Our surprise is at being torn from our nightmare less dreams into the real nightmare of life here. Luna's eyes are wide, and I can almost read her fear. The fear that today will be today they find her lighter. Neither of us moves from our pile of blankets and quills, instead, we slowly untangle our limbs and move so we sit cross legged on the bed. I grasp her hand, quickly squeezing her fingers. Luna's squeezes back and I let go. Our hands lay alone in their own laps, alone, not lonely.

Sometimes, I get sad about everything, all at once. I'm so sad I cannot cry and for some reason, right now, all I feel is a deep painful sadness.

"You know the drill." Mrs Matthews says. "Hurry up, brats."

"Get up then, you little shits." She snaps when neither of us moves. Luna glances my way. It is an unwritten rule that you will lie to protect the girls on your ward, no matter what this lying causes for yourself. We stand, swaying upwards to our feet.

"To your underwear, _girlies_, we have a lighter to find." Mr. Hyde says watching our reactions. Mr. Hyde smirks now as I pale. Luna, if possible, stands talker. "Hurry, _dears_, we don't want to have to force you."

Luna yanks her pyjama top and shorts off, tossing them on to her bed. I am not sure if I think her brave or stupid. I follow suit, shivering as I draw my clothes over my head and pulling down my shorts. My underwear has gone from bright white to dull grey from multiple washes. I miss the pureness of the white. Luna's are the same.

"Well, well, _well_." He says, drawing out the last word like, letting the sound linger. "A lighter and a knife to find..."

"What do you think, Mattie?" He says to Mrs. Matthews. We know she is deciding our fate. I guess in the end, things seldom work out the way you expect. Sometimes, fate is on your side. Other times, well, you've kind of sealed your own fate. Either way you have to trust that whatever's supposed to happen, will happen. But for some reason, I don't think any of this was meant to happen. I doubt God's plan was any of this.

Mrs. Matthews nods. "Teach them a lesson." I cringe. Luna is shaking slightly.

"Both?" he asks, stepping towards us slightly.

"Take turns. The other can watch." His smile grows, if possible. It's a haunting, sickening sight.

"Whore, clothes, off—now." He points at me. "You—stand against the wall facing us. Keep your eyes open or she gets a new cut, got it?" Luna nods slowly. Her movements are as if she is underwater as she drifts to the wall, standing with her back against the cold concrete.

I don't move. I am shaking, scared and lost.

"I said NOW." He says. Mrs. Matthew sighs.

"Take them off or give us what you did _that _with." She gestures to my leg, to the word, to the still scabbing frightful image. I meet Luna's eyes. She nods ever so slightly. She knows if I take them off they will find my razor replacement anyway. It is not worth the flashbacks threatening the corners of my vision. I reach into my bra, my face turning a shade of cerise, my cheeks defiantly cherry. I hand over my blade quickly.

"Thanks, _dear._" He sneers. I don't see the slap coming and so I don't flinch back quickly enough. I stagger backwards, the sound ringing in my ears. The next is more of a hit then a slap. Tenderness spreads down the side of my face and a throbbing beats dully in my ribs. The feeling coursing through me is not one I can make sense of. I see Luna's face, stricken and scared. But what is this- this anguish, this agony, this aching desire to get out of my own skin. What is this urge, this hunger, this yearning? This yearning to be anything else? To crave anything else. The ambiguity destroys me. The delusional reality that leaves me quivering, trembling in my own self-inflicted fear. My fear holds me, an iceberg drifting in the ocean, as I watch Mr. Hyde turn to face Luna.

"The lighter." He says.

She shakes. She tries to take a step backwards, only to find herself trapped by the wall. She looks tortured.

"Stop it." I say quietly. Mrs. Matthews laughs. "Stop it!" I yell, anguish plain in my voice, "Stop it! You have no right!"

Mr. Hyde snaps back his arm and it flies in slow motions towards my face. I blink and fireworks erupt behind my eyelids. "This room is on lock down until I get that lighter. No food. No water."

I do not hear them leave. I hear sobbing. It is distance and causes my heart to twinge. I force my eyes open. It is not Luna who is crying. It is me. Luna whispers into my ear, soothing words of little meaning, her arms wrap around me and hold me up. She simply holds me and lets me cry myself out.

I always feel like such an idiot when it comes to romance. Such a stumbling, bumbling fool. And it's hard, because I don't know what I am anymore, what we are, what this is.

I only know the way Luna whispers my name, the way the shadows dance across her half-lit face. The way she sits on my bed, pulling me up with her and coating me in covers. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, cups her hand beneath my chin. The way, suddenly, I was no longer crying, I was safe with her and she leaned in to kiss me. Slow and cautious, but so quiet, so steady, like this was it, like this was the only chance we had, this was the only chance we'd get.

Luna smiles at me, and I hold my breath to let the moment settle into place. And then her mouth is on mine and I can feel her pulse, I can taste her lips — sweet and slow and soft, almost poetic in all their furrow of perfection. And then she is gone, sitting up suddenly, biting her lip in a way that I know means she is scared but oh God, is so sexy. And I want her to be kissing me again. But she is gone. Like smoke, like ghosts.

"Hermione?" She says sweetly, dreamily, voice shaking.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to give them my lighter."

"Why?"

"I have you. I don't need it. You... I'm..." I watch her, transfixed as she searches for the right word. Instead of the word that I can almost see on the tip of her tongue she says: "They will starve us if I don't hand it over. I can't watch you starve to death, Hermione, I just can't." I nod. I understand. I think.

"Luna..." I blush, "Kiss me again?" She blinks her bright moon eyes at me, and it is almost as if they sparkle.

She presses a soft gentle kiss to my lips. "We're got an hour until they come back for that lighter..." She hums seductively into my neck. I giggle softly, leaning forwards to catch her lips with my own. I pull away and she pouts. I don't know... I just... Conflict crackles though me.

I shake my head. "Feel like making an escape plan?" I ask, trying to distract my muddled, aroused thoughts.

She places a careful lingering kiss on my collarbone. "Come on then. The faster we're away from here the better." I nod in agreement. Escape plan part one: planning the exits.


	5. Chapter 5

Ginny used to scare me. I never felt about her the way I felt about Luna, but still, I watched her. She was beautiful, but not in the same way. Ginny's beauty could be like wildfire and Luna's would be wildflowers. I preferred flowers over fire. Fire destroyed, flowers grew.

"Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?" Ginny would say, laughing. She was quoting Albert Camus, I think, actually, I know. It was him. Ginny asked me if I knew who he was before she quoted him the first time. AlbertCamus was a 20th century French essayist and novelist. I suppose she thought herself ironic. I have no idea what she thought, actually, I never did. She confused me endlessly; right up to the day she was no longer around to confuse me.

"But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill herself." I would say because I was almost certain it was another Albert Camus quote even though I honestly barely knew who the guy was, but I knew enough to be able to share quotes. Quotes were something we both liked. We liked to express what we couldn't through other people's words. I don't think this was a good thing. I think people should be able to say what they seem, not words strangers put in their mouths. But it is just hard sometimes to find a word that sums everything you need to say up perfectly.

Ginny would smile whenever I said this quote. I always used to wonder if she was smiling about the things I could have said but didn't. I can't help but remember everything. It's just the way I'm wired. I mean, when I see somebody, I think about all they've ever said and done. All the little things, the good and the bad, it all comes flowing back to me. But with Ginny... I'm never going to see her again and so the thoughts of her stay safely inside my head, the tap screwed tightly closed to stop memories from flowing freely.

Killing herself wasn't something Ginny spoke about with me. I knew that it was why she was there though. She had tried and failed. She had failed to do the one thing she thought she had control over: living and dying. Really, we have no control at all, do we? I did not ask to be born. I will not ask to die. Both happen.

What I have control over right now: ...

I was going to say 'my life.' I then decided that was probably a lie. If I had control, I wouldn't be here. I suppose I am taking back control with my escaping. My escaping will be my control. We just need to get there first.

Escaping doesn't mean no more demons and no more ghosts. It does mean, however, freedom.

"Do you think we'll really get out?" I ask Luna. She is curled up beside me, thinking her own thoughts, lost inside her mind. I see her face change to concentrate on what has been said.

"I think I would be happy to die trying." She whispers as if she is not sure if it is right to say.

Oh, _oh._ "I don't want to spend the rest of my life here." I say. "It's get out or..."

"Or." She repeats. She knows what our 'or' is. Our 'or' is goodbye. And I can't help but think of the past. What happened to make things the way they are now? My mind drifts so often and I can't escape this feeling. I just want to scream out to Luna and tell her what's on my mind, but I won't because she never tells me what is going through hers. I suppose we share odd thoughts and some feelings slide out unasked for, but there is no more. Yet without knowing where her mind drifts to, where she goes, her story, her life, I still find myself sinking further into her soul, combining us.

"Luna?" I hum, sliding an arm around her.

"Yes?" She asks, shifting so she is comfortable.

"I think it's your turn to tell a story." I yawn and she pokes me, looking at me as if to remind me it is the middle of the day and most defiantly not the time for sleeping.

"I thought we were making our plan." Luna's eyebrows crinkle.

"Please?" She nods, rolling her eyes, she agrees. "About you." I add. She smiles, she already knew.

"I didn't want to be Violet Baudelaire." She whispers into my neck, the words floating into my ear. "I didn't want to be Violet because my Mum was an inventor and one day when I was nine; the machine she was building blew up. She died." Luna stops, and just breathes. I kiss her forehead gently. "I had my Dad and we were okay but... I missed her. I still miss her but I know one day I will see her again."

"How do you know?" I whisper.

"Don't you think you will be reunited with loved ones?"

"I'm not religious." I inform her.

"Me neither." She says very seriously. "Anyway, I wanted to be a writer or an explorer. I wanted to be a person who creates with words vast worlds. I wanted to put my world down on paper, and just create all these beautiful places. It's just a shame that the real world is running out of beauty. I wanted to create more beauty. But then I wanted to explore our world and find what beauty it had to offer me. I wanted to see all these waterfalls and volcanoes, I wanted to climb mountains and visit a church in every country. I wanted to see other people's idea of beauty."

I wonder if she knows. She is beauty.

"I like that." I say. "'Other people's ideas of beauty,' it just sounds like... Like by seeing their beauty you create more of it? If we all just opened our eyes we would see so much." I feel her eye lashes flutter against my neck. "Are you sleepy?"

"No. I just wanted to open my eyes." She touches her lips to my neck, as soft as flower petals. "You are beauty." She whispers and for a moment I wonder if she reads my mind.

Luna and I are sitting in the bathroom, the bath half full, with our feet in the warm water. It is almost seven yet no one has come to check on us, no one has brought us news or food. We sit in the bathroom because under the ceiling fan and the running water, our voices are invisible. It is the perfect place to plan our exit. I wonder if it is the same as running away. I think running away is a better option than suicide.

"Well, we need to go before six because that is when they lock the doors. We could sneak out in the rush of staff that leave the?" Luna suggests, kicking and splashing water up the walls. I notice brown stains, like fingers holding the wall as their life line. I stare hard. It is my dry blood. I kick water in its general direction.

"No, they would check at the door, wouldn't they? This place is on lock down. I'm thinking Pete is our get out of jail free card."

"Pete?" Luna pulls a face. I don't blame her. Getting his keys means getting extremely close to him...

"One of us can steal his keys. He has backups for all the cells and main door because of how much time he spends with the kids." I say. "We can wait until everyone is asleep and then just walk out." I don't want to think about how we will get the keys. Not yet.

"Mrs. Matthews is on the door guard shirt most nights, though." Luna points out. "She'd _kill _us." Luna makes a violent hand movement to show our deaths.

"The lighter." I say suddenly, not a hundred percent sure. It comes flying out my mouth anyway.

"What about it?" She says as her hand self consciously strokes her side.

"Set off the fire alarm? They will have to evacuate the building, we'll all be outside, and it will be dark..." I explain. "They won't have time to cuff us if the building is burning. We'll just slip into the woods and keep running."

"But if I don't give it up they're going to starve us."

"Then we'll have to do it tonight? Unless you can think of another way to get us outside?" I ask, suddenly hoping she can. What if it doesn't work? Panic echoes inside my heart. They'll know it was Luna.

"Are we actually setting the place on fire?"

"I think... well, that will save the others too, won't it?"

"What if they get taken someplace worse?" Luna worries. I sigh sadly.

I elbow the wall and shout: "Hey, Melissa, you awake?"

"Bitch, I'm sleeping!" She yells back with a laugh. I wonder sometimes if anyone is happy.

"Breakout tonight, going to start and fire and we all run for the woods. Pass it on." I shout. She is silent. I worry we are caught.

Then: "Bitch, you got some courage. See you tonight."

"It's worth the risk to all of us." I whisper.

"We'll do it. Tonight. We'll get out." Luna says. I wonder if she's scared of fire, secretly, which is why she chose to burn. Maybe she wanted to scare herself.

I shiver. The big bad world is nothing. Not anymore.

**Reviews make sad giraffes smile again :)**


	6. Chapter 6

I was thirteen years old when I met Ron Weasley.

I found it hilarious that he was Ginny's sister. In a horrible way, her sharing my cell, her madness, was pay back from him destroying me. When she died, he was in pain, and he deserved the pain. I hope he felt all Ginny's pain. I hope he felt mine too.

The day I met him was not the day I died inside. I met Ron at a carnival. I had gone with a few girls from school: Cho, Lavender, Parvati, and Fay. Ginny was in the year below me and was having some time off. None of us knew she had already been sent to St. Dumbledore's home for Wayward Girls. The rumour was she has cancer, and some of the year sevens had left flowers outside her house. Pot Marigolds were my favourite because although they meant grief, they were like sunshine.

The carnival visited every Christmas holidays and everyone always went. This was the first year I didn't go with my parents, being thirteen, I felt I deserved independence. My parents knew I was sensible, knew I was smart, trusted me and I went. I have always been fascinated by carnival rides and carnivals themselves, for they seem strange places. It amazes me that average, ordinary people eagerly trade in the serenity of the ground for the chance to be tossed through the air. It amazes me that at some time in history someone thought that people would enjoy this, and that person invented what must have been the first of these terrifying machines. For me, it is precisely the thrill and excitement of having survived the ride that kept me coming back every Christmas to eat cotton candy and fly through the air. Lavender, Cho and I went on the bumper cars, giggling and laughing, while Fay and Parvati wondered off to find pop corn. I was so alive. In the other cars it was mainly groups of boys. Two stuck out to us: Ron Weasley and Harry Potter.

They were both sixteen, a few years ahead of us at school. But they were bumping into us and laughing and calling us 'beautiful' and 'cute' and we were blushing. And we were innocent, at thirteen, we had never smoked, never drank, never done more than hugged a boy. We knew girls in our year that had, but we weren't stupid, we knew it wasn't something we would ever get back.

Lavender, Fay and Parvati had to be home by eight but Cho and I were allowed to stay until nine. It happened quickly, and it was strange. Harry and Cho went off together; they went on the Ferris wheel and held hands. Ron and I wandered around together. I remember how nervous I was to have a boy take an interest in me. It was sweet and innocent and he held my hand. When we're young, we often associate handholding with the protective action of a parent looking after us as we cross the road, or as we walk through busy areas, and here, in the busy carnival, Ron never once let go. He was keeping me safe.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" he had asked me. I had blushed and agreed and I never knew. I promise I never knew.

Tomorrow was a Sunday, two days before Christmas. We met in Starbucks and he brought me a hot chocolate with chocolate sprinkles. I feel foolish now but I was so delighted then. "Let's go for a walk, baby." He had said. He called me 'baby.' I was hooked. I was a fool. I was excited.

We walked for a while, our hands swinging between us. I knew mine was sweaty but he said nothing and I was grateful. He pulled me into an allotment, he wanted to show me the plants he was growing, and he wanted to be a florist. I thought it romantic. And then suddenly it wasn't romantic, it was as if the light had drained from the day and left me in a black hole of hell. We were in a shed. There weren't any flowers, just a bundle of old coats on the floor. "Want to lie down?" I said no. "The wall is fine." He continued casually. Suddenly, the girl wasn't me. It was Hermione, but I was someone else and I was watching...

He kissed me gently and I let him. Then he ungracefully shoved his tongue into my mouth and I flinched back, turning my head. He bit down on my neck, but it wasn't pleasurable, just painful. I pushed him away as forcefully as I could manage. This seemed to have the opposite effect. I wanted to run, to struggle, but my body was frozen as he harshly ripped my tights and knickers down and my skirt up. I begged. "Shut up" was the response I got.

I was powerless. I tried to escape into my mind, into my soul, only to find them broken and laughing tears.

After what seemed to be forever but really was as fast as it all started, the terrible thing was over. Ron pulled away, did his belt up, blew me a kiss and left. I slid down the wall and sobbed, curling into a ball. Broken, violated and destroyed. I realized that the world does not exist for my benefit. It followed that the ratio of pleasant and unpleasant things around me would not change. It wasn't up to me. It was clear that the best thing to do was to adopt a sort of muddled cheerfulness. I pulled my tights and underwear up, readjusted my skirt and wrapped my cardigan round my waist to hide the growing stain of blood. I ran home. I walked in a smiled, I said I was tired. I went and sat in the bath water for three hours, scrubbing myself raw. The water was crimson.

The next morning I told my Mother. She looked at me and said "How dare you lie about something like that?"

I told my Father. He said "'Mione, dear. Please be sensible about this. That lie could ruin Ronald's life."

It was within the next few months I was sent to St. Dumbledore's Home for Wayward Girls. I had flashbacks whenever I saw him. I stole knifes from the food tech class room. I flooded the girls' bathroom. I swallowed twelve sleeping tablets with a glass of vodka and spent a week in hospital. The doctors didn't believe me. But everything I did... They said it was attention seeking. Nobody understood I wanted to die because of what he did and because it was made out to be my fault.

The week in the hospital made me realise I had no power. The sense of pre-packaged caring; just like the diners in places love had long since abandoned, worried me. Were they not meant to care? Where the sweet scent used to seep between cracks in the door and frame, now was only the smell of decay and grief.

Lavender had laughed at me and said "If he did rape you, it was your fault for dressing like a whore, wasn't it?"

That was the end. They loaded me into the back of a white panel van, marked "St. Dumbledore's Home for Wayward Girls." They told me that it was for my protection, my own good, as they strapped me down to a gurney and cuffed me to the dark rails.

The first thing I said to Ginny was: "Your brother should die."

"I know." She had agreed. I didn't ask why she agreed. Her wrist told me a tale I didn't want to know.

It is five minutes to one. Luna is dozing, muttering, and shivering. I am wide awake. I have to wake her in a moment; she wants the satisfaction of torching the place. I toss my pillow at her instead of getting up and immediately regret it. She gasps and recoils, waving her lighter like a weapon. It is almost comical but truthfully, the lighter is all we have. It takes the humour out of things.

"Now?" She asks groggily.

"Now." I say strongly. She stands, and is not her floating far away self. She moves with purpose, dragging her sheets and mine into the bathroom and piling them in the now empty bath. The lighter clicks and together we stand and watch the flame. She dips her hand, running the lighter along the fabric, creating a stream of carrot coloured flame. It grows, quickly, like a child. One day you look and see they are no longer a baby, but an adult.

"Come on." I say. We shut the bathroom door. "Melissa, now!" I add in a shout. My shout is swallowed up by the sound of the fire alarm. It is the sound of fear, distress, dread, unease and panic. It is the sound of Ron's breathing in my ear. The sound of Ginny's last laugh. Of Luna's screams. Of the roaring fire behind the bathroom door.

To our surprise, the sprinklers on the ceiling do not go off. Time is ticking by. I hear footsteps run past out door, fleeing and leaving us to burn. The door lock deactivates and I sigh with relief. I have been holding my breath and it rushes out, scared and shaky. The room is fast filling with black cracking smoke.

Luna shoulders the door open, coughing. Out in the corridor, we find our dorm of girls slowly moving from their cells, panic etched on the twenty faces. I expect them to startle like scared deer, to run.

It is silent Rue who speaks. "Are you all stupid? This way, come on, out the fire door!" her voice is small in the jumping flames that are spilling from our door but we all hear her. She is like the voice of God, guiding us through the darkness.

It is not until we reach the first fire door and find it bolted that dread seeps through me. I find Luna's hand.

"The next door?" Rue says. It is half command, half question. We follow her, a drip of anxiety the size of an ocean falling on the group. Behind us, the fire is creeping up, following us like an adorable puppy that is not so adorable. I look around then, truly look. Every girl around me is terrified yet standing tall, coughing yet still breathing, dead yet alive. We have to get out.

"We need something to break a window with." Luna says, her dreamy voice coming back, she is trying to escape into her mind...

We all look at the window. The window is our new hope. I don't see Rue leave but I see her return, carrying a post from her bed. The simple chunk of wood looks as if it is sweating in the heat. The window smashes, the shattering glass raining, dancing and jumping on the floor. Cold air rushes in. It tastes like freedom.


	7. Chapter 7

I wonder when the thought of suicide changed from 'how' to 'when.' I wondered that often, blade in hand, a bottle of sleeping pills... To me, it was not selfish. It was not giving up. It was finding freedom. I am not sure what it was that made me want to die. It was not just Ron. It was that not a single person believed me. I was trapped in the act of violation.

I have found a new freedom.

The window smashes; the shattering glass raining down, dancing and jumping on the floor. Cold air rushes in and we lean forward eagerly. It tastes like freedom.

"Hurry." Rue says simply. She is so young, so innocent, so delicate and fragile. So broken. Yet she is healing our broken souls enough to make us run to safety. I have never really paid much attention to the other girls and now I regret it. Rue reminds me of flowers, growing tall amongst the weeds to find sunlight.

The glass catches on my clothes as I crawl awkwardly out into the cool night; it is clawing at soft flesh in a last attempt to drag me back into the vortex of colour: red, yellow and orange swirls lick the ceiling as the last girl climbs out ungracefully. We hug, we all hug, just holding and crying and saying words that mean everything and nothing at the same time. We are alive and free. It seems unreal, impossible, and even scary. Because I have no idea what so ever anymore.

Together we stand; a line of twenty linked together, a chain of hands. Together we watch our prison burn.

I wrap my arm around Luna's waist, drawing her against me. "We can explore everywhere now. Travel the world." I imagine spending the rest of my teenage years being an actual teenager: going on road trips, seeing films, having sleepovers, being happy with Luna.

"Together." She adds forcefully, pulling the word out so easily.

"Hey!" The chain breaks but does not scatter. I used to watch these wildlife programs, and when the animals in a herd were attacked, they would protect the youngest and weakest by forming a circle around them. Melissa; tall, skinny, weak, ends up in our circle. Along with little Rue and Sally, who is shaking so violently she clings to Melissa to stand afloat in the world.

Mr. Hyde is running at us. Mr. Hyde is waving a fucking gun about like we're in a crappy cop film. That's all I can think of; crappy cop films. I also have time to wonder why nobody is running and find that through the horrors of our 'home' here, we have become more than united by lying for one another, we have become family, and we have become friends and sisters.

"In rows, now!" He orders. None of us move. A row of men with handcuffs and dressed in white suits seem to dissolve into existence behind him.

"What about our happy ending?" I whisper to Luna.

"There is no goddamn happy ending, you deluded fuck." She whispers back sadly.

Come tomorrow, this will be the past. Come tomorrow, we may not be here to call it the past. I have no idea what is keeping us still. That is a lie. We are still because we know if we run, we won't all make it. We have adapted to be the true meaning of the saying 'no man gets left behind.'

"To the woods" Is a whisper passed through us. I don't know who started it or where it ended, but it was there, and we listened. Together, as a unit, we ran, an unstoppable chain, linked and leaning, clinking together in the night. A shot sounds, it sounds like the world has cracked in half. Some girls throw themselves to the ground, scrambling to their feet to continue running. No one stops unless to help another up.

Another shot sounds and a cheer erupts from a few hundred feet behind us. I don't see who. I don't see how. The girl is scooped up and the running never stops. She did not scream. I turn to Luna, to ask if she saw who it was but she is not beside me. I spin, stumbling, and Melissa grabs at my arm, urging me onwards. A flash of beautiful blonde hair and a limp arm...

When these horrible things happen, like maybe you are drowning, maybe a guy is waving a gun at you or maybe you are being raped, you do not think 'oh, it would be incredibly nice for some kind person to notice that this is happening and safe me.' You just scream. I scream and run and scream and the trees are so close and...

As soon as you start to have romantic feelings for someone, you're fucked. You and this person are going to hurt one another. Even if you are together for the rest of your life, you're going to feel indescribable pain. When you're in, no matter how deep, you're in. I am in. It is not Luna's fault, not really, but her pain causes me pain. I can't tell if she is moving her arm of if it is just swaying with the movements of others.

We hit the trees, spiraling into the forest, the sound of gunshots echoing but not repeating. It's amazing, really. When I was a kid I had a dream, I thought I knew exactly how my life would turn out and it never crossed my mind that it would not just be perfect.

"Can we stop?" A girl pants, her breathing labored and shaking. I glance at her. Her name is Sophie, her is hair is dark and wavy, her eyes bright, like mini nebulas. I have no idea what brought her here, but I am glad she is _here._

We stop, leaning on mossy trees, under a canopy of falling leaves. A few stars stand out, guiding us home. I cannot see the fire from here and it dawns on me that we have been running nonstop for at least half an hour.

Luna is placed slowly and delicately on the soft slimy ground. She is alive and bleeding; her leg bent a sickening angle. The two girls that were holding her and coating in red. Luna is smiling and breathing softly.

"This might not seem like an adventure right now, but when you look back, you will see." She says with all her strength. Her eyes are flickering as I kneel beside her. None of us are first aid trained, we are lost, unsure. I pull my vest top off and wrap it around Luna's leg to try and stem the bleeding. Tears and sweat trickle into my eyes.

Rue appears beside me, offering her t-shirt. She shivers in the bra that she does not really need. I take the t-shirt. I can't breathe.

"Here" Sophie pulls off her t-shirt, her hands covering mine. "Help us." She says to our crowd. And, oh, our crowd. Melissa is the eldest and it shows as she jumps into action. I hear all the words; they flow like a song that doesn't quite fit.

"We need to get to the next town; there will be doctors we can take her too." Melissa says.

"And then?" Some asks.

"We go our own way."

"What, split up?"

"We're a team." Rue interrupts. "I think we should stay together at least until we know we are all safe."

"She isn't breathing." Sophie says and we all fall silent.

She isn't breathing. The pool of blood around us has spread horribly far. I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief. And I believe that love is stronger than anything. Love won't save her.

"We need to move, now." Melissa commands.

"She won't make it." Rue says softly. I have no idea what I am feeling. Luna does not open her eyes, she does not suck in a breath and say 'Ha, got you' she just slips away.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life, the first day of forever, a forever without Luna Lovegood.

And the feeling of loneliness creeps up on me with a clumsy elegance only comparable to that of a former pianist taking a seat at the keys once more and finding that, to his dismay, his once so deeply embedded skill no longer dictates the dance his fingers must follow.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello my lovely readers. Did anyone cry? Anyway, this is the last chapter. *sniff* I should probably be getting back to Boy Next Door anyway, but it was nice to have a little break as this has been floating around in my head for a while. I hope you have enjoyed it and reviews make me smile, and also help depressed giraffes feel good about themselves.**

Twenty became nineteen, just like that. I fell in love with Luna the way she fell into endless sleep, slowly, then all at once.

The nineteen, without words, without conferring, gathered purple wildflowers under the brilliant moon beams. Melissa wraps Luna's leg in the lilac flowers and I wish I would have thought to do so. I don't think I would have been able though... Melissa's hands are slick with what looks like red paint but is really much more sinister. Together, we braid the amethyst flowers into her long luminous hair. Indigo, mauve and cherry coloured flowers weave in with the glow, shining silver against her skin in the moonlight.

Rue sits first, and we follow her lead. We sit in a circle around the body. Not the body: Luna. I wonder if her soul still lingers. We are a barrier, a wall, a shield, the coastal defences, and we protect her for everything and from nothing. Luna looks so beautiful.

"She could be sleeping." Sophie whispers. She is right; Luna could just be a Princess, sleeping on a bed of flowers. I wish she was sleeping. I have never wished anything more. I hate the next thought that consumes me but I cannot stop myself thinking. Being raped... I would live through it a thousand more times to bring Luna back. Rape is awful, rape ruined me, but I am still alive. If it would bring Luna back... I shake the thought away, tears welling up on my eye lashes.

I am in love with her, still and maybe always. Oh, I hope she knew. I couldn't bear it if she didn't know. I weep. It sounds so simple, to weep. I am weeping, but it is so much more. My heart is being torn to shreds, my reasons for escape crumbling. I am what it means to be destroyed and to keep going.

"We can't stay here." Rue whispers. "We need to keep going."

I know she is right but I have an urge to slap her, to watch her head snap back in surprise.

"Are we leaving Luna here?" Melissa asks. It takes me a moment to realise eighteen pairs of eyes are focused on my face.

"..." I don't know what to say. I am on the verge of breaking down, of sobbing uncontrollable at the pain in my chest, at screaming and ripping out my hair. "We leave her here." I whisper. "She's safe here."

As I say this, I imagine the flowers coming to life. I imagine a young, small flower, usually a yellow pansy. She feels the warmth of the giant sun, and is quenched by a light spring rain. She feels the touches of things that are bigger than her and something more powerful than she could ever be. She wants to be stronger like them, yet she knows that she can never resist these greater things. She is in love with them. Not lustfully, but purely, happily, and innocently, because she has to be. I imagine a delicate rose, reaching up to the sun and singing, a pure, beautiful melody that draws the humming birds and incises the buzzing bees. Nature will guard her.

"She's safe and sound now." Sophie whispers to me. I break then, how can I not?

The tears won't stop but I still climb to my feet. We link hands but our chain is missing a link. The saying 'no man gets left behind' is no longer part of us. But maybe it is. I will carry Luna in my heart and soul; she shall be with me in every step I take.

I think of her last words: "This might not seem like an adventure right now, but when you look back, you will see."

We have to leave her body here, which does not break our chain, because we do not leave her soul.

"Come on." A girl whispers, her voice blurry with our mixed tiredness. "Let's go home."

"Home?" Rue yawns. "Together?"

"Of course." I say strongly, choking on my tears.

Together we walk through the dark maze of trees, our linked hands keeping us afloat. And we walk. Slowly, surely, we come to a road.

"Who do we call?" Melissa asks as a road sign comes into sight.

"I know." Rue smiles.

I am not alone and I do suppose I am not lonely. How can I be when Luna beats with my heart, races with my pulse, and rises and falls in my lungs?

_~one year later~_

"Hey, 'Mione, look at me!" Rue calls, laughing. The swing is soaring high, and it is a wonder she does not slip away into the clouds. The garden is full of spring time flowers and new life. Rue laughs again as Sophie misses a push, almost stumbling over.

"Careful." I warn, but I am smiling. She sticks her tongue out at me. We have all been through so much and I am in love with the idea that we can relive our childhood here.

Here is Hogwarts Boarding school, a private, independent learning space for anyone willing. All nineteen of us were given special scholarships, funded mainly by Rue's wealthy grandparents who had been campaigning for her release from St Dumbledore's Home for Wayward Girls. We called them from a payphone in the next town.

"Swing with me?" She asks, giggling as Sophie pushes her higher. I don't need to be asked twice. I leave my cup of cinnamon tea on the table, half running to the empty swing.

"I'm stealing your tea!" Melissa informs me. I glance back at her, smiling, and no longer she a skeleton girl. I see a beautiful one.

I miss swings. Is that odd? I kick my legs, starting an even pass. "Mel, push me!" I ask.

"Lazy!" She taunts, slurping the rest of my tea and complying. I soar into the clouds. I wonder if Luna can see me from Heaven.

"I love you." I whisper to her.

"I love you, too." Luna sings back in the wind.


End file.
